


Rivers and Buckets

by whitchry9



Series: The Patron Saint of Idiots [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Medical, mostly canon compliant, outsider pov, paramedics, what are timelines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-12 10:21:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4475741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miranda returns from her stint in New York because Sherlock, as it turns out, isn't dead.<br/>He and John then proceed to get hurt, because that's how they roll. </p><p>aka the third series of Sherlock I promised ages ago and finally got around to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Empty Hearse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so technically John didn't post on his blog until November 7th, and in the last fic, Miranda saw the blog post before going back. But we're going to pretend that John posted about Sherlock being alive BEFORE he nearly got burned alive, so that she was back in London and working by the time the events of this fic happen. (Because I wrote it before I realized, and really want to use it. I do what I want Thor.)

Miranda was thrilled that Sherlock was not dead, as it turned out.

However, she wasn't thrilled when John Watson nearly died the day after Sherlock returned to London. (If she thought Sherlock got himself into enough trouble on his own, apparently it was nothing compared to the trouble the two of them could get into together.)

 

* * *

 

It was November fourth, which meant bonfires were nearly at a peak in London, except for perhaps the fifth of November, remember remember and all that. There would be an increased amount of calls for burns, unconscious people, and the occasional smoke inhalation.

 

John Watson managed to be all three, which he should have been quite proud of.

 

* * *

 

To be honest, she didn't understand all of what Sherlock told her; he seemed to be in a bit of a panic which was understandable, given his best friend (who he'd only just gotten back) had nearly died. But some more information other than 'fire' and 'text' would have been helpful. What she could gather, from the flurry of people around them, John had been in the fire, and Sherlock had pulled him out. Why, no one knew, and she really didn't have time to figure it out.

 

Instead she just knelt over John and shone a light in his eyes, noting the trickle of blood from a wound on his forehead.

“Hello John,” she said loudly, over the roar of the bonfire behind her. “Do you know where you are?”

The man only blinked slowly at her. Bad question. Why would he know where he was? She barely knew.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” Miranda continued, noting that his pupils were sluggish. _Probably drugged then._

“You said he was in the fire?” she asked Sherlock, hovering behind her.

“Yes,” Sherlock said tightly. There was a woman next to him that Miranda didn't recognize, wearing a brightly coloured coat.

John moved a hand to his head, remembering the question.

“Does your head hurt?” Miranda asked sharply. If he wasn't drugged, then the sluggish pupils could be due to a brain bleed, in which case they needed to hurry.

John squinted at her and hissed as his fingers probed the side of his face.

She pried his fingers away to look at the skin, and found burns there.

“Raul, can I get some gauze and saline? There are some burns on the side of his head, second degree.”

Her partner finished looping the oxygen mask around John's head, and nodded, pulling the supplies from a kit.

 

She doused the gauze and held them to John's head. He winced initially, probably as they stung, but relaxed as some of the heat was taken out of the injury. She also dressed the laceration on his forehead while she was at it.

 

She kept up a steady stream of questions as Raul finished getting an IV and taking vitals, all the while Sherlock and the woman hovered behind her. John wasn't very responsive to any of them, but his colour improved with the oxygen, and he could follow simple commands.

Miranda really hoped the muscle weakness and confusion were side effects of whatever drug he'd been given to get him in the bonfire, rather than an injury sustained in the process.

Still, they took extra care in getting him on the gurney.

 

“Who's going to come with him?” she asked, glancing between Sherlock and the woman.

They looked at each other, unsure.

“You can-” they both said at the same time.

Miranda glanced at Sherlock's hands as they whispered between themselves.

“Sherlock, did you pull him out of the fire?” she interrupted.

The man glanced at her.

“Yes, he did,” the woman told Miranda.

“That settles it then. You come in the ambulance Sherlock. I want to check you over.”

He looked like he was about to protest when the woman gave him a poke.

“Go on,” she urged. “I'll get a cab.”

Sherlock nodded at Miranda and climbed in after John was loaded.

 

Sherlock waved at the woman as the doors were slammed.

“Who is she?” Miranda asked, unable to contain her curiosity any longer.

“John's girlfriend. Or fiancee now, I suppose.”

 

Miranda tried to hide her surprise. “Oh. Well. A lot has happened in two years, I suppose.”

Sherlock nodded morosely.

“Can you take your gloves off?” she asked, changing the subject.

Sherlock obeyed, and thankfully no layers of skin came off with them. They must have been high quality gloves because his hands underneath were perfectly fine. The same couldn't be said about his wrists, which were an angry shade of red.

She wet more gauze with saline and passed them to him to wrap around his wrists, all the while keeping a close eye on John. He was semiconscious and still dazed, but his vitals were fine, and they were getting him to hospital, where he could be checked over for a head injury.

On the other hand, she knew that Sherlock would not allow himself to be treated, either remaining at John's side, or leaving so that the woman who'd hovered over him could be there.

 

“What's her name?” Miranda asked Sherlock, who had managed to grab hold of one of John's hands, despite the gauze on his own, and the IV in John's.

“Mary,” came the muffled reply from under the oxygen mask.

Sherlock smiled at him. “Yes. Her name is Mary.” He sounded slightly sad despite his smile, and Miranda wondered just what happened to him those two years he was away. If he'd thought it would be different when he came back, or if he expected it to be as if he never left.

 

She gently tugged Sherlock's hand back from John's to wrap up his wrist. They were probably only first degree, maybe second in places, but certainly not critical. They would heal without interventions. He gave his other hand willingly to be wrapped up.

 

John tried to say something, and Sherlock just shook his head. “Don't talk. There will be time later. Just rest for now.”

 

They pulled up to the hospital, and Raul came around to the back to pull John's stretcher out. Sherlock followed closely behind, and Miranda watched them go with fondness. She hoped they'd be alright.

 

As she well knew, two years were a very long time, and unimaginable things could happen.

 

 


	2. The Sign of Three

Life went on after that. Ronald and Miranda settled back into their London life. It was the same as before, and also imperceptibly different. They were the different ones. London hadn't changed in their absence, at least not any more than usual, but they were different. Their experiences in New York had changed them.

 

Miranda just hoped it was for the better.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock and John continued to solve cases together. John's blog didn't update until the spring, but when it did, the influx of cases seemed promising. Perhaps it had just taken a while for them to find their footing. Redefine their relationship, after one of them died and the other mourned.

Plus the fiancee thing meant that they were no longer living together, which must have made crime solving infinitely more complicated.

 

She just wanted to know what the case with the elephant was. How had the elephant gotten into a flat? Was it a full sized elephant? Was it alive? Those were the questions that kept her awake at night, and Ron was getting annoyed when she poked him and whispered yet another elephant related question.

 

So she hadn't seen either of them for a while, and apparently, neither had anyone else in the LAS. Sherlock seemed to be remaining intact. It was good news, but for some reason, she couldn't help but feel uneasy.

 

“Honestly,” she told Ron one night. “I don't think the code 221b is going to cut it anymore. They're different now. They don't live together, which was the basis for the code. The emails haven't started up again, and I don't know if it's because whoever used to do them doesn't care anymore, if they're not around, or if they think that for some reason, Sherlock and John aren't going to get hurt any longer. Which just isn't true.”

“Well, what do you want them to do?” Ron asked her. “Start up the meetings again? Get the newsletter going? Come up with some sort of new code?”

She snorted. “Like what? Prat Protocol? Idiot Alert?”

“Detective Down?” Ron suggested. “Or Doctor Down, depending on who it is.”

“It does tend to be Sherlock injured more,” she agreed. “But that's not really the issue, having a code word or something. It's been two years. People have moved on. They've moved on. It seems like everyone has moved on except Sherlock, and I don't blame him. He's trying to cling to what he had before, even though he can't.”

“That's deep,” Ron told her.

She swatted at him. “Don't be rude when I'm monologuing.”

She sighed and considered it. “I don't know, I guess... I just worry. They're kind of like the children we never had.”

“Isn't John the same age as us?” Ron mused. “I know Sherlock is a few years younger, but really, our children?”

She swatted him again. “I worry, that's all. I'm not always going to be there to patch them up, as much as I'd like to be.”

“You're fighting a losing battle darling,” he told her, reaching an arm around her shoulder to pull her in for a hug. “You can't always keep them safe.” He startled. “Okay, now I sound like a father telling my wife that she can't wrap the kids up in bubble wrap because they have to experience the world. ”

“See what I mean?”

“That being said, you still can't always keep them safe. They are grown men who make their own decisions. Besides, it would be an endless task in this world, when dangers are everywhere. Remember the call from last week involving a pen?”

She nodded. Death by pen was not the way she wanted to go.

“Dangers are everywhere. Trying to protect them from all of them is hopeless.”

“What's the saying, about emptying a river with a bucket?”

“I believe it was a religious story involving emptying the ocean using a seashell, but yes, I see what you're saying.”

She sighed. “Even more futile.”

“Perhaps,” Ron agreed.

“Alright,” she determined. “I'll stop worrying about them so much. Fair?”

“Fair.”

 

* * *

 

Honestly, it was the last thing she expected. She wasn't even on her shift, she was covering for someone else, in a different area.

But when the call came through for a stab wound, man in his mid forties, being treated by a doctor on scene, she should have guessed that it was at John Watson's wedding.

 

Because that was just they way it went. No matter what the men did, trouble seemed to follow Sherlock and John everywhere they went.

 

Still, when they arrived at the wedding reception, they were quietly ushered upstairs by the bride, who Miranda recognized as the woman she'd met months ago. Something with an M. Molly? Maggie?

_Mary._

 

“Have we met before?” she asked, eyeing the woman. She looked lovely.

Mary blinked at her. “Oh, I think so. November in the park?”

Miranda nodded. “You're... John Watson's... wife now I suppose?”

Mary beamed. “Yeah.”

“Are they both here?”

Mary nodded. “They're both with him. Right there,” she pointed. “Room 207.”

 

Miranda nodded, heaving the bag to a better grip on her shoulder. Nadia was close behind her.

 

“What happened?” she asked, glancing between the three of them, John in his wedding suit, jacket shed to tend to his patient, Sherlock hovering anxiously, and the man in the uniform looking uncomfortable and forlorn.

“He's been stabbed through his belt,” John said grimly. “Very thin blade, but relatively deep. The belt is binding the flesh together right now, minimizing the bleeding, but he'll need surgery to see how deep it goes, and some stitches, none of which I can do here.”

Miranda frowned. That was... unusual.

Which meant it was just about par for the course when it came to Sherlock and John, and whatever the hell they'd gotten wrapped up in this time.

 

She introduced herself to the man in the uniform, found out his name was James, and began an examination. She hit a roadblock when she got to his belt.

 

“I don't want to take the belt off,” she admitted. “That's something that's probably best done in a theatre.”

John nodded. “We've seen this before. The victim passes out within five minutes of removing the belt.”

Miranda shook her head. “Definitely not touching it then.”

 

She nodded to Nadia, who was just finishing a set of vitals, which were within normal range.

 

“The belt seems to be doing a fairly good job,” she noted. “I suppose that was the point. Is this a murder attempt?”

Sherlock stepped in quickly. “It is,” he murmured, “But I know who it was. There's a DCI downstairs to arrest the culprit. I don't want to scare him off with sirens and flashing lights.”

 

Miranda sighed, but relented. “Alright. James, do you think you can walk downstairs, or should be get the gurney?”

 

The man rose from his seat on the bed. “I can walk,” he told her.

She nodded, heaving up her bag, and following him out the door and down the steps. Nadia was close behind, and Sherlock, John, and Mary trailed after her.

 

They got their patient settled in the ambulance before she turned back to John and Sherlock, who'd followed them down. Mary was waiting in the doorway.

“Congratulations,” she told John.

It was as if John remembered where he was, what was supposed to be the happiest day of his life, and he smiled. “Thank you.”

Sherlock watched them go sadly.

 

She had to say, it was one of the more interesting cases she'd taken to hospital. The man went almost straight to surgery.

 

Sherlock's post on John's blog (with pointed notes about his Sex Holiday) claimed that there were no pictures of the attempted murder. She took that to mean that James survived the incident.

 

The video was also adorable.

 


	3. Drugs

It was a call for an overdose to a known drug house.

Frankly, the fact that they were getting the call surprised her, since most of the time, paramedics wouldn't be called. Sometimes the person would be dumped elsewhere, perhaps even at A&E, but it wasn't often they were dispatched right to the house.

 

The police arrived before them and made sure it was safe before they entered. Her partner was Rhys. She'd been working with him quite a bit since she came back, and she really liked him. He was fantastic in emergencies, and he was quite a large man, which came in handy during situations such as this. Not that she was afraid, necessarily, but she was glad to have him as a partner.

 

“He's upstairs,” one of the officers told her. “Right in the hallway. Can't miss him.”

She nodded to him and heaved her bag over her shoulder a bit more.

Rhys went first.

 

There were only a few other people that she could see, most of the junkies scared off by the cops. The ones who didn't care were still there though.

Rhys knelt down next to the man. “Sir, can you hear me? I'm a paramedic and I'm here to help you.”

There was no response, so Rhys kneaded the man's chest with his knuckles, which elicited a groan. “Sir, can we help you?”

There was still no response.

“Alright then,” Rhys muttered, leaning over for the kit.

She started checking a set of vitals, and Rhys began inserting a line.

“He's hypertensive and hyperthermic,” she noted.

“Of course he is. He's overdosed on cocaine,” came a voice from behind her. A familiar voice.

She spun around. “Sherlock,” she sighed, and got to her feet. He was hidden in the shadows by the wall.

“He doesn't know how to manage his doses. I do,” he added.

She scrutinized him. He was twitchy, and his pupils were wide despite the dim light.

“You,” she hissed. “You are high.”

Sherlock only raised his eyebrows at her. “So?”

“What happened to you being clean?”

He shrugged. “Things happened. It's different now.”

She huffed. “Does John know?”

“Nope. And your patient is about to go into cardiac arrest,” he pointed out.

Miranda turned her head to look at the monitor. Shit, he was right. How was he always right?

She rushed back over. “You got a line started?”

Rhys nodded.

“Great, push the lidocaine. You are not dying on me,” she told the patient, who still had no name.

 

By the time they had his rhythm stabilized and she turned back to look for Sherlock, he was long gone.

Of course.

 

* * *

 

She didn't have work the next day, and after cleaning the flat and getting groceries (they had nothing in the fridge but milk, jam, and three eggs) she headed over to Baker Street. Sherlock needed a talking to, and it wasn't like she knew where John lived to go see him.

 

She knocked on the door, and an elderly woman answered.

Miranda smiled at her. “Hello. Is Sherlock Holmes here?”

The woman shook her head. “He's out. Is he in trouble? If he's in trouble you should probably just call that Detective Inspector.”

“Oh, no, I'm not with the police. I'm a paramedic.”

The woman was examining her.

“Oh, I think we've met before. You came when the man... well, he fell out the window.”

Miranda frowned. She didn't remember that. “Was Sherlock hurt?”

“Oh no, it was just the man. Sherlock... well, he threw him out the window. He didn't exactly fall.”

Miranda wracked her brain. “Oh, yes!”

She didn't remember it because it didn't have anything to do with Sherlock, not directly anyway. Although the man being thrown out the window would be more consistent with his injuries.

They'd spent nearly half an hour with the police and fire crew getting the man immobilized and safely onto a backboard. There was a serious risk of spinal injury given the way he'd fallen.

It hadn't been one of her favourite calls, but it also wasn't one of the worst.

She'd forgotten that it had taken place sort of at Sherlock's flat. Technically it was outside his landlady's flat. In the bins.

“I remember that now,” she told the woman. “Do you know when Sherlock will be back?”

She looked worried. “No, I don't. He's always running about these days. Would you like to come in dear?”

“Oh, well I shouldn't.”

“Come on in. I'll make us a cuppa and call Sherlock, see if he's coming home any time soon. Please, I insist. ”

“Alright then,” Miranda smiled, and stepped into the entrance. The stairway going up to 221b was familiar, but the woman led her to the ground floor flat instead.

The woman sat her in the tiny kitchen on one side of a table and put the kettle on.

“I'm sorry, I don't remember your name. I know that Sherlock calls you Mrs...”

“Hudson. He always calls me Mrs Hudson, even though I'm not married anymore, and he's known me for year. You can call me Martha.”

“Miranda,” she grinned.

“Ooh, that's a lovely name,” Mrs Hudson tutted. She pulled teacups out of the cupboard. “Can you listen for the kettle? I'll just call Sherlock.”

“Of course.”

Mrs Hudson hurried into another room, and Miranda could hear hear dialling. Still a landline, and a corded phone at that.

“Yes, Sherlock dear, it's Mrs Hudson. There's a woman waiting here to speak with you, so come home as soon as possible. Or at least call me back. I worry about you. And I've made those biscuits you like. Okay, that's all. Be careful out there.”

The kettle began to whistle, and Miranda turned it off before Mrs Hudson got back in the room.

“Oh, thank you dear. Sherlock didn't answer, so I left him a message. I'm hoping the promise of biscuits will bring him home before dark.”

Miranda smiled.

“Do you take sugar dear? Milk?” Mrs Hudson asked as she poured the boiling water over the tea bags.

“Both please,” she responded.

 

They both mixed their tea to their likings and sat down at the table again together. Mrs Hudson got a little plate out and put some of the biscuits she'd told Sherlock about on it.

 

“So. What sort of trouble is Sherlock in now?” she sighed, sipping at her tea.

Miranda startled. “What makes you think he's in trouble?”

“You're not here for a case,” Mrs Hudson told her. “You would have said. And Sherlock doesn't just have visitors, especially female visitors. No offense dear.”

Miranda held up a hand. She knew that well enough. Based on John's blog, Sherlock didn't seem to have any friends, aside from him. Perhaps Lestrade, maybe a few others, but not any that would come by, and certainly not any that Mrs Hudson didn't know.

“I am worried about him,” she admitted. “I saw him the other day and he looked... unwell.”

“Oh, you noticed that too?” Mrs Hudson asked. “I've thought that as well, but when I ask, he just mutters something about the work, and that he's fine. I think it's been hard on him, with John off living with Mary. It's not as easy for them to work together.”

“So Sherlock hasn't been calling John for help?” Miranda asked, sipping at her tea.

Mrs Hudson shook her head. “Not really. I think he's trying to prove a point. Because he wants John to work with him, and I think all three of them know it, but Sherlock isn't calling him to prove that he can do it on his own.”

“Can he?”

Mrs Hudson only sighed and ate one of the biscuits. “Nothing's been the same since he came back. And of course he knew that it wouldn't be, but I think deep down somewhere, he hoped. It's hard for him to adjust. I think John was his first real friend,” she added.

Miranda nodded. “Has John been around? Have you spoken with him recently?”

Mrs Hudson shook her head. “I haven't seen him for a few weeks. Not nearly as bad as after Sherlock... died, but still. I keep telling myself that he's got a wife now, and another one on the way to look after, but you'd think he could find the time to pick up a phone.”

Miranda nodded sympathetically. “Well, if he does call, perhaps you could mention some of your concerns? He may be busy, but he still cares for Sherlock.”

She remembered how panicked Sherlock was when he thought John could die. How he was strangely calm and lifeless in the ambulance. It was unnerving.

Her tea was gone, and there was only one biscuit left on the plate. They were very good. It was no wonder Mrs Hudson used the lure of them to call Sherlock home.

“I should be going. My husband will be home from work in a bit, and he'll probably want dinner.”

“Oh, my husband was just the same,” Mrs Hudson told her sagely, getting to her feet and putting the cups in the sink. “Expected me to always have him dinner ready, because I was the one home all day.”

“Today was just my day off,” Miranda told her. She didn't want to ask about the woman's husband, and what had happened to him. She'd gotten enough new information for one day.

“See, that's a modern couple. Both of them work. In fact, Mrs Turner's married ones next door, one of the men stays home all day. She says that he works from home, but mind you, I've heard strange music coming from there at all hours.”

Miranda smiled as Mrs Hudson walked her to the front door.

“Sorry I couldn't stay longer to wait for Sherlock. But if you're right, who knows when he'll show up. Here's my number,” she added, scribbling her mobile number on a scrap piece of paper from her purse. “If he does show up, you can call me. Or text, if you do that. I have voicemail, so even if I'm at work, just leave a message, alright? Pass it on to Sherlock if you think he'll go for it.”

“Of course dear. It was lovely having you for tea.”

“Well thank you for inviting me in.”

Mrs Hudson waved her off, and Miranda walked down the street towards the tube station. It was nearing dinner time, and she should probably cook something for the first time in about a week. It would be a good surprise for Ron when he got home from work.

Plus, she actually had groceries, which was a bonus.

 

She pushed her worry about Sherlock to the side. Even if he was using again, she knew that there wasn't much she could do to help him. He would be highly resistant to treatment, and she wasn't sure how he'd gotten clean the last time. The best she could do was hope he called, or that Mrs Hudson let her know.

Unless he was injured, it was all she could do.

 


	4. His Last Vow, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We can totally pretend one of the paramedics was female.

It was possibly the absolute worst call of her life. And she was including the mass casualty at the circus she'd been called to.

No, this was definitely worse.

 

It wasn't long after she'd gone to visit Mrs Hudson, worried about Sherlock, that her fear came to fruition.

Sherlock had been shot in the chest. Not even off to the side, where it could have hit a lung, but almost midline. It probably hit the inferior vena cava, maybe even a corner of the heart.

 

They scooped and ran. They took the time to insert an IV in the lift and threw an oxygen mask on him. Other than that, they knew that time was previous. Time was life.

Their priority was getting him to hospital, not fancy interventions that wouldn't matter if he bled out.

 

John had been keeping pressure on the wound, so they didn't even expose the area until they were on the way to the hospital, lights and sirens going.

 

She slit his shirt open as John called at Sherlock from behind her.

“Sherlock. We're losing you. Sherlock.”

The desperation was barely contained, but she had to ignore that, because he was right.

His vital signs were erratic at best, and he was barely breathing on his own. She really didn't want to have to tube him, not in the ambulance, and not in front of John.

But when he stopped breathing a moment later, she knew that it wasn't optional. Besides, Sherlock had seen it done to John and she supposed it was just his turn now.

 

John kept pressure on the wound while she slid an ET tube between Sherlock's vocal cords. He kept murmuring to Sherlock, saying things about how he still needed him, and that he had damn well not leave him before the baby was born.

She switched out with him, handing him the ambu bag so she could put a pressure dressing on the gunshot wound.

 

It was mostly internal bleeding, which she couldn't fix in an ambulance (or period, but most certainly not in an ambulance) and could only help keep him alive until surgeons could remove bullets and repair blood vessels and resect organs and neatly sew everything back up where it belonged.

 

Miranda just had to keep Sherlock alive long enough for that to happen.

When they delivered him to a waiting team of trauma surgeons at A&E, Sherlock's heart was still beating. They rushed him away, shouting orders for blood and tests.

John hopped out of the ambulance, looking lost and confused. His hands were covered in blood.

He flexed them experimentally. They were probably sticky.

 

“John,” she said to him gently. “Go clean yourself up.”

He nodded.

“He's strong,” she assured him. “If anyone could pull through, it's him.”

“He just came back,” John sighed. “And now this.”

Miranda nodded. “I know.” She squeezed his shoulder. “Go on. Call your wife. Call his brother. Pray, if that's what you do. Just take care of yourself. And... let me know, okay?”

John nodded, not looking at her. “Yeah. I can do that.”

 

He straightened up, squared his chin, and marched into the hospital.

 

She watched him go for a minute before coming back to herself. She still had most of a shift ahead of her.

 

* * *

 

She received an email a few days later. Sherlock had pulled through his initial surgery, despite all odds. The email didn't elaborate on what that meant, and she didn't dare ask.

 

There were no posts on John's blog, but she didn't expect there to be. She knew that John would be busy with Sherlock, helping him get better, and still spending time with his wife. Who might have been pregnant, if John's mutterings were anything to go by, and Mrs Hudson's comment from their discussion rang true. (She wasn't sure how it didn't hit her til then, because of course.)

 


	5. Chapter 5

It was only a week and a bit later that everything went to hell again.

An ambulance was called to 221b Baker Street. The caller didn't mention who it was for, only said that there was a shooting, and asked them to bring morphine. She honestly didn't know how Sherlock managed to get involved in two shootings in as many weeks, but she had hopes that he was still in hospital, and that the use of his address was completely unrelated.

 

David was ahead of her, running up the stairs to 221b. He was new, and didn't quite understand the gravity of the situation. He rushed into the room before she did, looking between the three people. It was John, Sherlock, and Mary. Sherlock looked like shit, and was speaking to the other two. No such luck with him not being involved.

“Did somebody call an ambulance?” David asked.

“...eight minutes,” Sherlock finished. “Did you bring any morphine? I asked on the phone.”

Miranda rolled her eyes at Sherlock. Typical.

“We were told there was a shooting?” David asked. It was his first time meeting Sherlock. He was confused.

“There was. Last week.”

Yes, she knew. She'd been there and saved him yet again. Of course, she'd expected him to stay in hospital until he'd gotten better, rather than undoing all her hard work.

“But I believe I'm bleeding internally and my pulse is very erratic.”

He was holding a hand to his wrist, probably measuring it.

“You may need to restart my heart on the way.”

He pushed himself up out of the chair, his knees buckling and giving out. John and Mary each grabbed one of his arms, holding him upright.

She and David rushed over, dropping their bags to the ground to help Sherlock fall in a controlled descent, rather than simply falling.

He was reluctant though, clinging to John and muttering at him.

“Magnussen is all that matters now. You can trust Mary. She saved my life.”  
John stared at him. “She shot you.”

Miranda startled a bit at that. Mary, the woman John had married, was the one who'd shot Sherlock? Why? She seemed so nice.  
Sherlock gasped, but didn't release his grip on John. Stubborn bastard. “Er, mixed messages, I grant you-”

His speech broke off into a gasp and his knees gave out completely, falling to the carpet groaning.  
“Sherlock? Sherlock. All right, take him. Got him?”

 

David unwrapped an oxygen mask as Sherlock groaned and gasped for breath. She revealed his abdomen, bandage still in place with no sign of bleeding through. His stitches were likely intact, so the bleeding was probably internal.

 

Again though, that didn't mean it was better.

 

David got the mask on Sherlock and the oxygen going, while she started running fluids. Sherlock had left the cannula in, which was thoughtful of him.

That was all they did before they got him on the gurney and packaged him into the ambulance.

 

Neither John nor Mary seemed to want to climb in the ambulance with Sherlock. And considering what Miranda had just heard, she wouldn't have let Mary in if she'd wanted to go. As it was, she and David left both of them standing on the stoop of 221 Baker Street.

 

He couldn't help but be angry at him, just a little bit. How had John, an accomplished doctor, and practically Sherlock's personal physician, not noticed the state he was in? Sherlock was pale and breathless, and even as she and David arrived, could only speak a few words at a time.

John must have been awfully distracted not to notice, although if what Sherlock said was true, and Mary was the one who'd shot him, it was understandable. Finding out that your wife had shot your best friend would be a shock.

 

Although that didn't explain why no one had called the police. If Sherlock had the foresight to call for an ambulance, knowing he'd collapse, then why didn't he call for someone to arrest Mary? Yet again, he'd have known since he woke up that she was the one to shoot him. He had all that time to give a statement or tell John. He'd left the hospital for something specific.

He was just kind of an idiot for doing it.

 

She shook her head at him.

“Sherlock, how are you doing?” she asked loudly over the sirens.

“I'd be better if you brought morphine,” he muttered.

Miranda sighed. “Sherlock, you know why we didn't.”

Sherlock grimaced.

 

She glanced at his vitals again. It wasn't good. Sats were dipping, blood pressure was steadily low, and his heart rate was indeed erratic. She really hoped he wouldn't prove himself right, going into some abnormal rhythm that she'd have to shock.

Although that would be just typical.

“Seashell,” she muttered at him. “Or bucket, whichever you prefer.”

He raised an eyebrow at her.

“Bucket,” she told him, pointing to herself. “River,” she continued, gesturing to the world at large. “Trying to empty it is futile. You know what, forget it. Neither of us are ready for this conversation. Just... keep breathing, alright?”

Baby steps. Teaspoons.

She'd take it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They did have to restart his heart on the way, David pulling over so she could shock him. His heart restarted, but barely. It was by no means a solution. It wouldn't replace the blood no longer in his arteries and veins, wouldn't stop the blood leaking into his abdominal cavity and pressing on his organs. It was only that, a heartbeat. A temporary measure.

 

But it was still beating when they go to the hospital, and that was all she could ask for.

 

 

* * *

 

 

She didn't hear much about Sherlock's recovery after that. John didn't post anything on his blog. Sherlock's blog hadn't been updated since the deleted tobacco ash post.

(Not that she checked it daily or anything. Maybe weekly. Definitely weekly.)

 

She knew that Sherlock hadn't died. If he'd died again, so soon after coming back, it would make headlines everywhere. And there was nothing.

So he was alive. Off the grid perhaps, recovering hopefully, but alive somewhere.

 

She hoped that he was still friends with John. She hoped that Mary didn't try to kill Sherlock again. She wondered if John and Mary were still together, and if Mary'd had her baby. If she was really pregnant. Perhaps she'd lied about that.

She wondered if John and Sherlock even spoke to each other, or if they'd simply drifted apart, the gunshot wound in Sherlock's chest a chasm that neither of them could bring themselves to cross.

 

So she wasn't sure what Sherlock was up to.

Who knew. Maybe he'd bought a nice cottage somewhere. Gotten himself a hobby.

Perhaps something with bees. She could see him liking bees.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the next fic in this series is back to Avengers again, featuring everyone's favourite brainwashed assassin and blind vigilante.


End file.
